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Terence Winch
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Thanks, Earle. That is an excellent poem
Vincent: thanks for that great comment.
Thanks, Joan. I'm glad you liked it.
It's wonderful that Donald's work is being made available. He was a shy, somewhat enigmatic, and enormously talented poet.
Thanks for the comment, Peter. You can hear jazz influence on Irish music going back as far as the great Flanagan Brothers in the 1930s.
David: You're very welcome, my friend.
Robert: Thanks for that comment.
Michael: thank you for reminding me to read Greg's new book.
Thanks, Grace. (And I love your comments.)
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Greg Masters. Photo by Kate Previte ________________________________________ At 20 minutes, 37 seconds At 20 minutes, 37 seconds into track one of a box-set reissue of the Miles Davis Quintet recording “Freedom Jazz Dance,” a previously unissued rehearsal take, the raspy-voiced bandleader instructs drummer Tony Williams to play triplets. Up to this point in the ensemble’s working out of the tune, he’d, uncharacteristically, been lagging, playing as if he were still with Jackie McLean, accompanying with a ring-a-ding-ding on the ride cymbal. But after first working out a bass part for Ron Carter and a few run-throughs— Wayne Shorter certainly had the head down and Herbie Hancock seemed assured with splashes of chords— Miles instructs his teenaged drummer to lay down a triplet pattern and, after a few attempts, he hits on the pulsating underlying momentum that, still, 50-plus years after recording, transforms the seven-minute master track into a miracle. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Greg Masters co-edited the poetry magazine Mag City from 1977–85. In 1977–78, along with a crew of poet comrades, he produced a cable TV show, Public Access Poetry. From 1980–83, he edited The Poetry Project Newsletter. Over the past decade, he has issued 10 books of his writing from his imprint Crony Books. “At 20 minutes, 37 seconds” is from It Wasn’t Supposed to Be Like This (Crony Books, 2020). [To hear the track referred to in the poem, go here.] [For more on Tony Williams, click here.] ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Continue reading
Posted 7 days ago at The Best American Poetry
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Good idea On Sun, May 8, 2022, 4:31 PM t.p. Winch <tpwinch@gmail.com> wrote: Thanks, Grace. She apparently avoids email and the Internet.
Thanks, David. I imagined the figures in the Bosch painting singing this poem.
Clarinda: as long as your neighbors don't complain, all should be well.
Thanks, Grace. She apparently avoids email and the Internet.
Don: Thanks to you for turning me on to her writing.
Thanks, Gardner. Glad you liked it.
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Mary Ruefle, photo by Hannah Ensor, 2017 _____________________________________________________________________ Little Stream My heart was bright and shining like a lobster boiling in water. And then I was just a child eating the leftover snow. I’d lost my mittens and my belly button was as good as gone, meaning I couldn’t be born again, ever, so I sat by a little stream with my eyes closed. I saw a woman carrying a child’s coffin on her head. I saw a rat so friendly he shined my shoes with his tongue. I saw my mother leave the room, saying “Now I am going to go drink some vinegar.” I saw a surfer drink a wuthering wave and go down gently into that good night. I saw the daffodils praying together. I saw a hummingbird cry out for a comma between decades. I saw the quick trimming the hair on their necks and the wicks of their packaged feet. I saw something small and in constant danger of being blown away, like pepper. I saw a monk set an umbrella on fire, for fun. I saw an old man dwelling in a tiny fishing village with a tangible vibrancy that was truly inspiring. I saw a Venus flytrap eat a cheeseburger. I saw my struggles were coming to a close. I saw I would grow so old I would stop wondering what life on Napa Rui was like, and forget the first apple tree was in Turkey. I had the constant feeling something of vital importance had been lost sight of, was perhaps even gone. It’s hard to say hello to every atom. I got to know protozoans, though. It took three days for my umbilical cord to swim past. At the end, the tattered carnation of my navel seemed most like me, so I threw it in and at once my eyelids opened, never to close again. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Mary Ruefle is the author of many books, including Dunce (Wave Books, 2019), which was a finalist for the 2020 Pulitzer Prize, longlisted for the National Book Award and the National Book Critics’ Circle Award, as well as a finalist for the LA Times Book Prize. She is also the author of My Private Property (Wave Books, 2016), Trances of the Blast (Wave Books, 2013), Madness, Rack, and Honey: Collected Lectures (Wave Books, 2012), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award in Criticism, and Selected Poems (Wave Books, 2010), winner of the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. She has also published a comic book, Go Home and Go to Bed! (Pilot Books/Orange Table Comics, 2007), and is an erasure artist, whose treatments of nineteenth century texts have been exhibited in museums and galleries and published in A Little White Shadow (Wave Books, 2006). Ruefle is the recipient of numerous honors, including the Robert Creeley Award, an Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, a Guggenheim fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, and... Continue reading
Posted May 8, 2022 at The Best American Poetry
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Earle: thanks so much for this response to the poem.
Thanks, Eamonn. Great to hear from you.
Thanks for that comment, Indran.
Ms. Campbell: Thanks so much for that comment.
Thanks, Michael. Stay baffled!----that's my motto.
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__________________________________________________ The Philosophy of New Jersey (for Jill) Actually the sky appears older than it is. It’s 63 or 64 at most, not 75. The part with the cliff face and the yellow crane could be in its early 30s. It wasn’t Wallace Stevens who said, “They have cut off my head, and picked out all the letters of the alphabet—all the vowels and consonants—and brought them out through my ears; and then they want me to write poetry! I can’t do it!” It was John Clare. Wallace Stevens said—something like—the best poems are the ones you meant to write. That has a nice sound to it, but it’s hard to see how he or anyone would know that. It would be hard, for example, to accept the notion that there are ideas one meant to have. Poems underneath every peeling sycamore and inside every file cabinet, along with ideas about poetry and uncountable other ideas. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Charles North's recent Everything and Other Poems was a N.Y. Times New and Noteworthy Book, What It Is Like headed NPR's Best Poetry Books of 2011, and The Nearness of the Way You Look Tonight (2001) was a finalist for the inaugural Phi Beta Kappa Poetry Award. Other books include the innovative Complete Lineups and the essay collection States of the Art. With artist Trevor Winkfield North published the collaborations Elevenses and En Face, and with James Schuyler co-edited the poet/painter anthologies Broadway and Broadway2. ["The Philosophy of New Jersey," from The Nearness of the Way You Look Tonight (Adventures in Poetry), is used by permission; © 2001 Charles North.] ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ William Hilton, Portrait of John Clare (1793–1864). Oil on canvas, 1820. Continue reading
Posted May 1, 2022 at The Best American Poetry
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Míle buíochas, a Mháirín